Blood
by Cyanide-Princess-666
Summary: It started in the local news at first. Then it went national. Before we knew it, it was on our doorsteps, chasing us in the street, scratching at our windows. The country went mad, people trampled their friends to death in a rush to evacuate the cities, neighbours shot neighbours and blood ran in rivers through the gutters. The whole world went to hell.
1. Chapter 1

_**Blood: Chapter 1...**_

_**New story starting here folks, based on the brilliant Deadlocked series. I hope I can do it justice, and I hope you people love a good, gory zombie flick every now and then, because that's what this is! Enjoy :)  
**_

**oO0Oo**

_It started in the local news at first. Then it went national. Before we knew it, it was on our doorsteps, chasing us in the street, scratching at our windows. The country went mad, people trampled their friends to death in a rush to evacuate the cities, neighbours shot neighbours and blood ran in rivers through the gutters. The whole world went to hell._

oO0Oo

**July 14th 2014, 9:52pm...**

Fenton lounged on the sofa, his floppy ears shedding fur over the cushions. Any other day, I might dig out the vacuum to clean up the mess and he'd settle at my feet in a sulk. But not today.

The edge of the seat pressed against my legs as I sat, eyes glued to a national news bulletin on the telly, ignoring the dog. Local news channels were all feeding the same national crap, every single damn channel. Distantly aware of my bouncing knees, I shoved both fists into my armpits to stop myself chewing my nails while a stony-faced news reader rattled off a list of instructions.

"...authorities are telling the public to stay in their homes, keep all doors and windows locked, and all lights off. Civilians should make no attempt to reach loved ones. Stay indoors. It is essential that anyone who sustains a flesh wound as a result of physical contact with the assailants is quarantined immediately. I'll repeat that; anyone who is scratched or bitten by the assailants must be isolated immediately."

This couldn't be real. It had to be some elaborate hoax staged by some stupid extremist group. Or some really violent protesters or something. Maybe it was a prison escape. Or rabies.

My heart raced at the thought of rabies.

Fenton whined, scooting closer to soothe me. He was a huge, goofy Labrador cross. What the hell he was crossed with escaped my knowledge. I snorted to myself and flipped off the TV as the man began to describe people he called 'Rotters'. Rotters? He'd get some serious shit for_ that_ later.

I turned away, passing a hand over my tired eyes. The lids felt like lead weights; any minute now I'd be taping them open. 'Too many long shifts,' I thought bitterly, heaving myself off the sofa. My apartment was small, but big enough for me and the dog. The bedroom was a box room, but it fit me in it, that was all that mattered. Dismissing the reports as crazy, I flipped off the lamp and collapsed onto my bed, out cold in seconds.

oO0Oo

I started awake, flying upright in bed as Fenton yelped quietly. He was at the window, quivering like a whipped puppy. Glancing at the alarm, I groaned. I didn't have to be awake for another hour. Kicking the blankets off, I crossed over to the cowering dog, waiting for the pounding in my chest to stop.

Edging over to the window, I peered through the gap in the curtains. The street below was empty, not surprising for six o'clock on a Saturday morning. A bike lay haphazardly in the road, accompanied by a lonely looking shoe. The owner of both was nowhere to be seen. I frowned, straining to see further up the street. Apart from the bike, everything looked normal to me. All the same, I was scared enough to keep glancing out the window as I dressed, reluctant to open the curtains even after I was fully clothed. I wasn't sure why; maybe the news report from last night had me spooked.

oO0Oo

Half an hour later I was stood at the apartment door, listening for noises outside. For some reason I felt like checking before opening it was tantamount to my safety. At least Fenton would be with me when I left; being a drugs officer had its perks. It was Fenton's job to search houses for any illegal substances, which meant he had to come to work with me. His specialties were heroin and meth.

I turned the key in the lock, flinching as the disengaging tumbler shattered the thick silence. Fenton waited anxiously, ears flicking left and right. I felt my heart hammering against my ribs as silence settled over the corridor again, followed by a flush of embarrassment.

"Get a grip Dana," I scolded, stepping out into the hallway. It was empty, of course, and Fenton followed cautiously. Something had spooked him. "Fenton, come on, you're making me late." He hovered by the doorway. _"Fenton." _He continued to hover. "God dammit." I clipped the lead to his collar and practically dragged him away.

Hurrying out to the car, I met no one on my way down the stairs; as usual the lift was broken, stuck somewhere between floors two and three. I wondered idly when the landlord would pay to get it fixed properly. Probably never. I snorted to myself, fumbling for the car keys. I never noticed that my neighbour, Jerry, wasn't there to meet me in the hallway. He set off around the same time as me every morning.

I glanced around as I rummaged in my bag; the keys were hiding again. The apartment block had six separate garages in their own lot next door. An alley led from a side door in the apartment block lobby to the garages. Apart from the huge electric gate that would let me out, it was the only way down to the garages. I began to relax, feeling secure behind the big iron bars.

'I'm being silly,' I muttered, sliding into the drivers' side. Fenton jumped into the back seat and stared out the window, brown eyes fixed on the gate as I put the car in first and edged forwards, scanning the gate card swiftly. It slid open on its mechanical hinges with a gentle whirring sound, sliding shut behind us with a loud clang. The street was deserted.

I passed the bike with its lonely shoe, unnerved at the sight. I was used to the emptiness, not abandoned bikes and people forgetting their shoes. It seemed so out of place in the middle of the street, jutting out between the neatly parked cars. Its rear wheel spun gently in the light wind. Fenton was unusually quiet as we passed it, and when I rolled down the window for him he refused to stick his head out, backing up to the other side of the car with a whine. I sighed and hit the button again, sending the window back up.

"You've got to stop acting so weird chief, you're freaking me out." The dog just stared back balefully, his tail twitching. He loved car rides; I usually had a hard time keeping him still. Instead he sat, statuesque, scared and tense. I turned my attention back to the road.

Further into town, the cars were still parked neatly at either side of the road, but here and there a dustbin was overturned, rubbish strewn over the ground. One or two car doors were open, and a town house I passed stood with its front door gaping wide. Eyes seemed to watch me from the shadows between buildings. Fenton whined quietly in the back seat.

I stepped on it, my little car picking up speed as it carried us towards the police station. Once or twice, I caught a flash motion between the houses. I kept my eyes on the road, terrified, hoping my fright didn't cause a pile up. Not that there were any other drivers around to be part of the pile. The needle on the speedometer crept past seventy as I reached the city centre. The shapes were more frequent now, flashing in and out of my peripheral vision. Fenton was cowering so far down in his seat that I couldn't see him in the mirror anymore.

I slowed to fourty and slammed on the breaks, approaching a hard right too fast, taking the corner as carefully as I was able. The tires squealed as I slammed on the brakes, spotting the gridlocked traffic too late. The brakes screamed as the fiat struggled to slow itself and failed. It smashed into the bumper of a black SUV hard enough to lift the back wheels off the road, coming to a steaming, broken halt. I jerked against the seat belt, winded by the force as it stopped me going through the front windscreen. The dog yelped as warm liquid trickled down my chest where the belt split my skin. There were noises coming from outside, barely audible over the hissing of the broken engine. Too dazed to move, I could only stare at my bruised knees. _Look up. _My left index finger twitched slightly. _Look up, Dana. _The feeling was returning to my left arm. It throbbed, the soft tissue damaged by the impact and the sudden arrest of the seatbelt. _Look up, god dammit!_ I lifted my battered head and screamed.

Six people, if you could call them that, lumbered down the street, their movements jerky and awkward. A woman in a tan coat led them. Her blonde hair was matted with blood, broken sunglasses still resting on the bridge of her bloody nose. The left lense was missing, and puss leaked down her face like tears as she groaned. She was just close enough for me to make out her one uncovered eye. It was milky white, completely absent of a pupil. Blood soaked her tan coat, caking her clawed hands as she reached out towards the car. She wailed like a starving animal, her broken teeth gnashing, and I wondered just whose blood covered her.

I fumbled for the belt clasp as they shambled closer, fighting to free myself. Tears of frustration blurred my vision as the warped belt buckle refused to unfasten, and I sobbed, terrified. It sprang open and I twisted, throwing the blood-slicked strap away from me and ignoring the pain. I grabbed for the dog and kicked open the buckled door. He was fine, just frightened, and I kissed his head quickly. I ignored the blood my lips left on his fur; my mouth was cut from the crash. My ankle burned as I limped away from the wreckage, away from the ravaged people trailing towards my mangled car. Their anguished cries escalated to animal screams as I disappeared round the corner and broke into an awkward half limp, half jog.

After ten minutes of running and bleeding, I was forced to stop as waves of nausea wracked my body; I wasn't sure if it was shock, the exercise, the bloodloss, or all three that was making me vomit. I said goodbye to my Wheetos and straightened up, looking up and down the blocked road, formulating a plan. We were closer to the station than home now, so going back wasn't an option. But there was no way to shelter us from anymore danger without a vehicle if we wanted to go forwards. Even if I could somehow commandeer one of the many open cars, the road was blocked by stationary traffic. I'd have to walk to the station from here; maybe somebody there could tell me what the hell was happening. Or maybe I'd find a gun to defend myself with.

I hobbled between the cars lining the street, deciding to head forwards instead of going back home. I realised as I walked that all the vehicles blocking the road were pointing in the same direction; the motorway. They were all headed out of town in a mass exodus when the shit hit the fan. Every door was open, though some people remained strapped to their seats inside the cars. These people should've been dead; their throats were gone, limbs missing, the flesh torn from their face, and yet they twitched and writhed in their cars, unable to fasten the belts holding them down. They all moaned weakly, air hissing through their shattered windpipes, and I stared in horror, noting that every corpse had the same, dead white puss-filled stare.

I left them, these people that should've been dead but weren't. I left them in their seats and carried on, setting Fenton down on the ground.

"You need to lose some weight," I told him, panting. "And I need to hit the gym." I was slim, but unfit, and the dog stared at me as I regained my breath and got ready to carry on. He stuck close to my heels as I walked, tail between his legs. I kept one eye on him, waiting for him to react to things he heard; he'd know if anything was coming long before I could see the trouble myself. He carried on beside me, quivering gently. Every know and then he'd brush against my legs for reassurance. It was cute, but he was too big and I was too wobbly. Every time he came near, my injured ankle threatened to topple me over him.

His ears pricked up and he stopped suddenly, listening to a new noise. I stopped and listened too, straining to hear the faint sound. In the silence of the dead city, I heard a child's cry echoing through the streets.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Blood: Chapter Two..._**

**_Alright guys, there's been a few changes to this story after I've submitted the first chapter. As you can see, it's now in the first person and it's a Skulduggery Pleasant/28 Days Later crossover. This is my first attempt at a crossover of my favourite film and my favourite book series . Hope y'all like it, I'm not sure how well this will go!_**

**oO0Oo**

Fenton took off at a bounding run, and with my injured leg I struggled to keep up. Pain shot through my shin as I tracked him, dodging round open doors and between parked cars. Several mutilated, squirming corpses hung out of them, and I had to squeeze past their grasping hands. The dog took a sharp left and disappeared through a doorway. Fear rooted me to the spot as he vanished into the dark. I couldn't hesitate; if I waited, I could lose him permanently. I dashed after him, terrified of being alone in the street.

It was an apartment block much like mine, minus the big steel gate. It still had the heavy front door, which stood wide open, hanging uselessly on its broken mechanical hinge. It was meant to be locked. The outside door was definitely always meant to be locked. I swallowed nervously as I entered, listening out for Fenton as he ascended the stairs. I could hear his paws against the lino flooring and I hurried to catch up with him, flinching at the shadows. There was writing scrawled on the walls, but it was too dark to make out; the electricity in the building was out. I wasn't sure I wanted to read it.

A noise to my left told me Fenton was sniffing around a door about six feet away from me. I followed the sound, hands flailing in the dark until I found him. His wet nose pressed against my palm to reassure me before he returned to sniffing. The baby was in one of these rooms, its cries were deafening in the cramped corridors. The dog stopped outside a room marked '408'. He seemed confident; he wasn't quivering, so I moved forwards and rapped on the wood. The crying warped suddenly, becoming a demented wail, similar to the creatures outside. And then there was a voice.

"Help me." That did it. I turned the handle, which proved to be stuck. There was someone trapped in there with that noise, someone alive like me. I barged it with my shoulder again and again, and the wood began to splinter. I burst through the door, blinking against the sun. It was brighter in here; the light from the tiny windows was disorientating.

As my vision returned, I located the source of the noise. There was a cot in the corner of the living room. Under a stained pink blanket, something baby-shaped screamed. I was about to reach in when a voice stopped me.

"Don't! She'll bite you." I turned to find a boy curled up in the corner. He was blonde and pretty, no more than eleven years old.

"Where are your parents?"

"Get away from the cot," he said, eyes wide. I withdrew my hand and took a step away, showing that I meant no harm. Following suit, Fenton plonked his big bottom on the ground, his tongue lolling. The boy darted over to shut the door, glancing up and down the corridor quickly. It swung open, the hinges buckled, so he dragged a chair over and jammed it under the handle, forcing it shut. And then he turned round and stared at us, breathing hard.

"I'm Dana," I told him, struggling to be heard over the squalling baby. "And this is Fenton." At the sound of his name, the dog got to his feet again and started sniffing round the boy.

"I'm Ben," he said, smiling as Fenton's wet nose brushed his neck. It was a tight expression, almost forced.

"Where are your parents Ben?" The smile vanished.

"Dead." The harsh word startled me.

"What?"

"They're dead. Izzy bit them. They turned into zombies and my neighbour brained them with a chair." My head spun. Zombies? A chair?

"What do you mean, zombies?" Ben shrugged.

"They died. Fell right down dead. Izzy got sick first and she died. We thought it was flu. They put a blanket over her body, and then she started screaming again. My parents were so happy, they picked her up to hug her and she bit them. Mum first, and then dad when he tried to help. And then they died and tried to bite me. But my neighbour had a chair. Now they're properly dead." He paused for a moment, eyes straying to the cot. "They're in the bedroom," he pointed to a door behind me without looking away from the baby. I turned, noticing the bloody hand prints on the frame. I didn't open it; that was a job for someone else.

"So, Izzy is your baby sister, right?" I asked, trying to make sense of what he was saying. Ben nodded. "And she died?" He nodded again. "And came back?" Another nod. "So if I'm careful, and I lift this blanket, she'll be like the people outside, and like your parents were?" He just looked at me, saying nothing. I sighed, knowing I was pushing him far too hard. But I had to get answers. "How old is she?"

"She was 6 months old last week." _6 months. _I balked, horrified. There was a photo of her on the wall, a happy, plump little girl in a pink sundress. Her little feet wore flowery booties and her eyes were huge and blue. She was beautiful. And dead now.

Fighting tears, I lifted the blanket away from the squirming mass. She was a monster, a little wriggling ball of grey skin and flailing limbs. She had a single scratch on her left hand. The newsreader from the previous night flitted through my head; _anyone who is scratched or bitten by the assailants must be isolated immediately._ Her eyes were ghostly white, puss-filled tears dripping down her cheeks. Her tongue was swollen and black, like a fat slug sitting between her sprouting teeth. Her body had begun to bloat with the gasses of decomposition. I vomitted quietly in the corner.

"They rot quicker," the boy said, nodding towards her disdended stomach. "The zombies," he clarified when I didn't answer. "Normal bodies take ages. These start rotting within a few hours. She's been like that less than five hours and she's rotting already. That's what they call them on the news. Rotters." . His disjointed thought process was confusing, and I realised belatedly that he was probably suffering from serious shock. I put the blanket back over her and stepped away, turning my face to look anywhere but at the cot. "I couldn't look at her either," Ben said quietly.

**oO0Oo**

**July 15th 2014, 10:30am...**

"Drink this," I said gently, handing the boy a mug of overly-sweet tea. He was definitely in shock now; the sugar would do him some good. We were still walled up in his home; we sat locked in his bedroom, praying for his sister to stop crying. Fenton stood by the door, ears pricked, listening to the strange noises of the dead city. It was over three hours since I left my apartment.

"Thanks," Ben said, holding the mug carefully. He stared into the brown liquid, violent tremors shaking his shoulders. I could see his sad eyes in the surface of his tea, and prayed he wouldn't cry. I couldn't cope with crying kids, they made me nervous. I looked around for something, anything to start a conversation, and settled back on him. He was oddly stocky for an eleven year old, and dozens of trophies adorned the bedroom walls. I seized the opportunity.

"You do sport?" I asked, and he blushed. I grinned to myself, glad he'd taken the bait.

"Kind of. I'm a figure skater." I felt my eyebrows inch towards my hairline, and his blush deepened. "It's okay, you can laugh. Everyone else does."

"I'm not laughing, I'm impressed." I shook my head. "I love ice skating, I wanted to be a skater myself when I was a kid. My parents never had the money to pay for lessons though." She smiled. "You're a lucky kid."

"I was," he answered, not looking up from his tea. I fell silent, feeling stupid. His family were dead, of course it was stupid of me to call him lucky. What kind of dick move was that? Well done, genius. I ran a hand through my hair, remembering why I didn't want kids of my own. I'd be a terrible mother.

"Ben?" He looked up as I tried again. "It's gonna be alright you know. I'll keep you safe. You and me against the zombie army." He smiled again. It was faint, but it was there.

"I used to love zombie movies. I'd imagine myself in them and I'd fight zombies and save people. Mum said I shouldn't watch them, but dad let me when she worked late. Do you think we can fight our way out like the guys in the movies?" he asked, miming a punch and slopping tea on the carpet.

"I do. I think you're a tough kid, you just need a cool weapon."

"I want a chainsaw," he said, becoming animated. He put down the tea and stood, pulling things out of his drawers, flinging clothes everywhere. Fenton jumped around, whining excitedly and grabbing socks out of the air. He had some sort of weird obsession with socks. "Found it!" Ben dumped himself down on the floor and proudly handed me a shiny silver disc.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's a throwing disk. Dad got it on a business trip once, he told me ninjas use them. That's my weapon." He chopped his hand through the air. "I'm gonna slice some zombie heads with it."

"But won't you lose it?" He lost momentum, frowning.

"Crap." I grinned, watching as he gutted his drawers again. They came up empty, so he attacked the wardrobe. This time he pulled out a bow and arrow set.

"Where on earth did you get that?" I asked, eyes wide.

"Another one of dad's business trips." It was a beautiful thing, lightweight and compact, no high tech gadgets or sights to make things easier. The bow curved gracefully, made from one solid peace of a wood I'd never come across. It was black, and smoother than silk, with a simple white rope grip in the middle. The bow string was brand new, never used, and the arrows were made of the same black wood with a lethal point, their back ends decorated with white feathering to keep them straight in flight.

"Do you know how to use it?" I asked.

"It can't be that hard, can it?" He mimed pulling an arrow back and firing it at Fenton. "You just pull it and let go."

"We'll see," I grinned and passed him the weapon, telling him to aim at the poster taped to the back of his door. He nodded, straightening his back and puffing out his chest. He notched an arrow back as far as it would go, took a breath, and released it. It clattered to the ground, slipping through his fingers at the last second.

"No I don't know how to use it." He gave it back to me. "I bet you can't do any better."

"There's no competition here, I went to a posh school. Archery was my thing."

"Liar," he teased. "Girls don't do archery." I smiled and picked the arrow off the ground, sitting it home and pulling the string back gently, enough to get some tension but not too much resistance. I took a gentle breath, and released the arrow. It sailed through the air, hitting the beaming sportsman on the poster right between the eyes.

"Okay, maybe girls can do archery."

"I lied about that by the way." I pulled the bow over my head, sitting it across my body, and went hunting for a bag to put the arrows in.

"You lied about doing archery?"

"No, I lied about the posh school. I got beat up for doing archery at the local highschool. I did it for six weeks and quit because a girl called Mandy threatened to cut my hair off for being a freak." I winked.

"I guess we're both different then," he smiled. "You can keep the bow by the way."

"I plan to."


End file.
